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It stands as the most iconic appearance in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, must walk a row of prison cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding acting coach his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during during an English class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other students. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply